Survivor
by DemonsInsideMe
Summary: Victoria Dane is as normal as anyone, but one day a stranger changes her life completely. She is abandoned by friends and family, and she must learn to fend for herself. Finally she is ready to return to society, but is society ready for her? DISCONTINUED


_**Survivor**_

**by**

**DemonsInsideMe**

Throughout my life, there have been only two people who said these words to me. And both times, it struck me the exact same way. They both said that, although they were alive, they felt as if they weren't really living. I never understood what they meant. How could a person not live? I found it difficult to comprehend.

Life for me was just that: life. I would go through my day cheerfully and without complaint, loving my life because I wasn't worried like they were; I wasn't angry at the world, hating my life and everything in it. I wasn't dreading leaving the relative safety of my home to face the dangers this world so easily provides. I was normal.

It was even a normal Saturday evening when it happened. I was walking back to my apartment from the bar down the street, never giving a thought to what could happen to a pretty girl in a city at night. I was alone with my slightly buzzed thoughts, my mind wandering to my boyfriend, who no doubt was waiting for me at home. I kept thinking about what he had planned for tonight, if anything, because it was my birthday, and I had requested not to have a huge celebration.

So it was no surprise that I didn't hear or see the hulking figure sidle up to me, didn't notice the glint of steel in the ham-sized fist. Then it was too late. A massive hand clenched around my bicep, and I was dragged unexpectedly off course, into a pitch-black alley. I tried to scream, but my mouth was covered swiftly by a foul-smelling hand, and a rumbling voice cut through my drunken stupor, sobering me in an instant.

"Scream and I'll kill you."

Sometimes I still wake up doing just that, screaming until my lungs burned and there was nothing left in me but the fear of him, and if he would ever come back. Sometimes I wish I'd been drunk enough not to remember. And sometimes, I remember.

I remember my life before that night, full of laughter and light. I remember my boyfriend, loving and proud to be with me. I remember the people I thought of as friends, thought of as family. I remember feeling loved and wanted and embraced with warmth and welcome. But most of all, I remember that night, how dark the sky seemed when I finally forced my eyes open.

I remember the rain falling, falling in torrents, drenching me in its cold embrace, caressing my body like a lover, yet feeling so distant, as though the life I lived was a thing of the past. And in a way, it was. I never truly moved past that day. It was as if my soul died in that dark alley, slashed to ribbons by the knife, so sharp and powerful, wielded by a man whose intentions were black as the darkest hour of night.

Now, my life seems bleak and endless. Time stretches before me, wielding its weapons of loneliness and despair. When my boyfriend came to see me in the hospital the next day, he couldn't see past the face--the red, swollen cuts; the black and purple bruises--to see the woman he used to love. I question myself everyday about that, the look in his eyes as he tried to comprehend what went wrong.

I was forever changed, emotionally and physically. The face he gazed upon in that hospital room was no longer the face of the woman he intended to marry, but rather the face of a monster.

A monster was what he could not love, and a monster was what I believed I had become. A jagged pink scar now graces my left cheek, marring my once-perfect features. There are three identical scars on my right hip, crossing from front to back, angling downward slightly toward the front. My legs remain covered at all times, hidden from the world and its scrutiny, as they are covered in scars, long and thin. They remind me of the pain that hulking figure caused, and they remind me of the man I lost because of it. I am a wiser woman now, if not beautiful. For--I now realize--what is beauty if you cannot protect it from the ugliness of this world. What is love, if it cannot endure the situations and tests that life throws at us. What is life, if you cannot begin to live.

*****

I surveyed the small, dingy two-room apartment I called home, sighing at its neglected appearance. Although it was not terribly filthy, it lacked the appearance of having been lived in. Books were arranged neatly on somewhat dusty shelves, alphabetized and by category. Each piece of furniture was arranged in a particular way, so as to avoid clutter and allow more comfortable movement from place to place.

I stood in the doorway, taking in all of this, as well as the wet-dog scent left by my moist bath towels, which were hanging off the back of the couch. I tossed them into the laundry hamper, wrinkling my nose in distaste. This small facial movement was the first in days. I knew that my usual expression was either one of blank disinterest or something that coincided with my to-hell-with-this-fucked-up-world attitude. I preferred the latter; it aided me in warding off unwelcome visitors or exceedingly forward men.

For some peculiar reason, I felt different today. Not just physically, although I no longer felt worn down or extremely stressed. I also seemed to be emotionally more responsive. There had been something resembling a smile on my face when I looked in the mirror this morning. But why? That was what I could not decipher, no matter which way I flipped it. I had no reason to smile, no reason to be happy or nervous.

All of the people I thought of as friends had abandoned me upon sight of my face. The long, thin scar, running from temple to chin, was too ugly, too much of a deformation for them to accept me once again into their social circle. All that I have in this world is my job, and my best friend, Anna.

Anna Berg is my reason for living. She is the reason I get up in the morning, make my coffee, and appear at the office, hair shielding my face until I make it to our shared cubicle space. She knows more about me than I know about myself. We are both columnists for the _Daily Tribune_, but I run a column that demands less street time and more hours in the office.

I know I should be over the whole incident, but it is difficult to forget when I see it in the mirror everyday, see the cuts on my legs every morning when I take a shower. So I hide behind my boring white walls and buzzing computer screen, typing furiously the words I cannot speak aloud. My column is a fiction piece, a new short story published each day, with my name sprawled across the top in bold black font.

_'Victoria Dane,'_ the paper proclaims, _'esteemed fiction writer and editor of the Daily Tribune_.'

'Esteemed', my ass. If I was so _esteemed_, why was I still working in this hell-hole, not getting anywhere with my career, much less my social life? But I knew why. I was afraid. Afraid of all of the 'what ifs', the possibilities. What if I failed? I couldn't handle that. So I remain here, day in and day out, sitting at a desk eight hours a day, praying for Armageddon or a bizarre accident to come and take my pain away.

I am a survivor, and this is my story.


End file.
